"too many steps of 12"
Eddie Cannon153 Plays
•11 Feb 2021
Inspired By: Blake Speeddle Written By: gyp Exactly what in the hell am I even chasing, the devil. The Female's horn is the bone of Adam's rib & lucifer's sin revels. Insida the loose crib of addictive enticements, is the need to feel sumthin and Im ride'n the winds like a rebel. My heart hangs low & lazy like the blood it pumps is tube'd from my life's gutter'd cellar. Thoughts controlled by the conscious and my mirror's tell'n me that I ain't that good a feller. Then my gifted need to write and spread good wisdom in metaphors be leaving assumptions no room to settle. If my only friends the devil then I been livin as a hellion. If my pockets empty shells then I'm practicing don't do's and never tells. I ain't had a good damn buzz in over a week and I need a fuck'n L. Some say I done got one, that ima loser but that ain't too damn hard to tell. If I can't see exactly where I'm going then I'm deeply feeling for the path in Braille. Can't pay attention face to face but from a distance I can eavesdrop some intel. Throw my line of money into the streets and only caught some fishy scales. Ain't nowhere I know in Gadsden that's safe for a thug to keep up business sales. Ain't made shit, not a pot to piss in & I've seen the donkey, I just couldn't pin the tail. I hope every lost love one of mine awakens beyond the funeral to see my heart's dressed in "Long Black Vail". But also scheme'n how not to lose the merchandise called the "priceless memories" in the estate sale. The way I think, sometimes I wonder why's my conscious always colored in the horse that's pale. I can't figure shit out God and the truth is that no answer to much of fuck'n nothing's done got me ether'd in frail. Tryna straighten me up so that I can be able and willing to freely change myself for well. Before unholy becomes my grail, or the God gifted winds inside my chest become the breath that sales/sails. After death makes me famous for freedom writing bout how life was living hell, before my broke ass ends up a long hard damn spell a doing time imprisoned in jail. On my daily practice of improving myself and the daily grind has the image from my mirror exposed in loaded binges of loosing all hope, need help. So damn close to both,, being the star or the choke, artist who chose to start believe'n in heart and hope but also resolved to giving up and give'n in to hard dope. and I'm living a fuck'd up life on this hot tar'd road to seven broken years of an imposters unholy grail. Split'n shells rolled up into a need to rechalk my cue, I'ma lost dude riding no name charities as I gamble shooting 8 balls while chained to no fuck'n wealth. Can't even walk right foot left simply because the road to recovery is paved in, "too damn many steps of 12". The 12 days of Christmas is a long list of needy families unwilling to help us elves hang'n from the shelf. If all the weight of the world was scaled from my shoulders it would be weighed up in anguish and dumbbells. And I'm better explained as "wisdom's window of pain Intel'd", explaining he's a widower of all the hopeless pain he felt. The arteries of a broken heart's open harm to an exposed arm bloodstained through the trails. I've even grown so close and far, to a few of many chosen scars that no love tells. Because I'm just a pinch and an intravenous poke away from being just another statistic they all said would fail...
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Keep grinding my friend
Inspired By: Blake Speeddle Written By: gyp Exactly what in the hell am I even chasing, the devil. The Female's horn is the bone of Adam's rib & lucifer's sin revels. Insida the loose crib of addictive enticements, is the need to feel sumthin and Im ride'n the winds like a rebel. My heart hangs low & lazy like the blood it pumps is tube'd from my life's gutter'd cellar. Thoughts controlled by the conscious and my mirror's tell'n me that I ain't that good a feller. Then my gifted need to write and spread good wisdom in metaphors be leaving assumptions no room to settle. If my only friends the devil then I been livin as a hellion. If my pockets empty shells then I'm practicing don't do's and never tells. I ain't had a good damn buzz in over a week and I need a fuck'n L. Some say I done got one, that ima loser but that ain't too damn hard to tell. If I can't see exactly where I'm going then I'm deeply feeling for the path in Braille. Can't pay attention face to face but from a distance I can eavesdrop some intel. Throw my line of money into the streets and only caught some fishy scales. Ain't nowhere I know in Gadsden that's safe for a thug to keep up business sales. Ain't made shit, not a pot to piss in & I've seen the donkey, I just couldn't pin the tail. I hope every lost love one of mine awakens beyond the funeral to see my heart's dressed in "Long Black Vail". But also scheme'n how not to lose the merchandise called the "priceless memories" in the estate sale. The way I think, sometimes I wonder why's my conscious always colored in the horse that's pale. I can't figure shit out God and the truth is that no answer to much of fuck'n nothing's done got me ether'd in frail. Tryna straighten me up so that I can be able and willing to freely change myself for well. Before unholy becomes my grail, or the God gifted winds inside my chest become the breath that sales/sails. After death makes me famous for freedom writing bout how life was living hell, before my broke ass ends up a long hard damn spell a doing time imprisoned in jail. On my daily practice of improving myself and the daily grind has the image from my mirror exposed in loaded binges of loosing all hope, need help. So damn close to both,, being the star or the choke, artist who chose to start believe'n in heart and hope but also resolved to giving up and give'n in to hard dope. and I'm living a fuck'd up life on this hot tar'd road to seven broken years of an imposters unholy grail. Split'n shells rolled up into a need to rechalk my cue, I'ma lost dude riding no name charities as I gamble shooting 8 balls while chained to no fuck'n wealth. Can't even walk right foot left simply because the road to recovery is paved in, "too damn many steps of 12". The 12 days of Christmas is a long list of needy families unwilling to help us elves hang'n from the shelf. If all the weight of the world was scaled from my shoulders it would be weighed up in anguish and dumbbells. And I'm better explained as "wisdom's window of pain Intel'd", explaining he's a widower of all the hopeless pain he felt. The arteries of a broken heart's open harm to an exposed arm bloodstained through the trails. I've even grown so close and far, to a few of many chosen scars that no love tells. Because I'm just a pinch and an intravenous poke away from being just another statistic they all said would fail...
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